Succulent
by MadBat27
Summary: Stirk is looking for something a little different than turkey breast for his festive meal. 19/25


Cornelius skulked in the dark alleys, crazed eyes scanning the streets beyond the shadows, waiting for his prize. A ravishing young woman walked by, her skirt barely reaching below her buttocks, shapely thighs tanned bronze. She wore hoop earrings that gleamed beneath her auburn hair. Cornelius licked his lips as his eyes settled on her chest.

"Too lean, too bony. Not nearly tasty enough," he muttered to himself.

In an awkward squat, he crept across the alley, taking cover behind an old dumpster. Vile smells hung in the air, of rotting fish and the urine of hobos. All of which Cornelius had grown used to. From time to time, he had been known to scavenge scraps from dumpsters to pass the time between meals. The situations was almost that dire again. His own ribs were starting to show now.

A large man walked past, sporting a comb-over and a monobrow. His thick coat added an extra ten pounds to a physique already in need of attention. There was a gold watch on his wrist, and his shoes bore the mark of some up-scale brand Cornelius couldn't quite make out. Falcones, most likely. Cornelius scoffed.

"Too rich, too fatty. Wouldn't last long at all."

Cornelius ducked back behind the dumpster as the fat man turned. He must have whispered too loud. On the wall opposite, obscenities had been scrawled out in green graffiti. On the dumpster, too, paint made out the letter A inside a circle. Vandals were everywhere, it seemed. But after all, this was Gotham. Criminals of every variety flocked here in their thousands to enjoy the haven. Too many thought the warning stories were merely a legend.

Peeking around the corner once again, Cornelius found the perfect specimen. A young man, dressed in running clothes, earphones in both ears shutting out the world outside. His nipples showed through the fabric of his top, and Cornelius could see the sculpted muscle of his pecs. Yes, this one was perfect. And he was coming right for him.

Cornelius rubbed his hands together in anticipation, already drooling at the thought. For days now he had been scurrying like a rat in the gutters through the maze of backstreets and abandoned allotments. Now, at last, his search would prove fruitful. His patience would be rewarded. His heart began to race, his breathing quickening, no more than a thin rasp.

With the time nearly upon him, Cornelius produced the needle from his inside pocket, already loaded with a chemical of his own design. The fast-acting chemical made his 'patients' more open to suggestion, without the zombie-like ramifications of other solutions. Moreover, his was completely tasteless. And that was, of course, a priority.

As the jogger approached, Cornelius's hands began to tremble. Excitement had always been an obstacle. If he did this wrong he could entirely ruin his meal, and time was running out. After all, Christmas dinner takes a long time to prepare, especially if you want the proper seasoning. Fear needs to be applied one pinch at a time.

"Big heart, strong. Perfect. You, sir, will be my guest for Christmas dinner. But, we'll have to start soon, if we want all the trimmings. And we do, oh yes we do."

Stepping out into the streetlight, he waved amiably at the jogger, his features taking on the illusion of another man, someone the jogger trusted. His balding head and grotesque features were hidden, his voice altered to the man's ears. A helpful trick indeed, and one so long since used. Arkham had been so oppressive, with their aggressive orderlies and their constant medication, leaving him drugged up to the eyeballs, and always so hungry. He'd almost forgotten the taste. But he'd soon remember.

"Dad?" the jogger questioned, slowing his pace and removing the earphones. "What are you doing out here?"

"I tried to call you," Cornelius offered. It was important to be vague. He didn't know enough about this man or his father to speak with confidence. The wrong turn from phrase could raise suspicion, and then the aura would begin to fade. He couldn't have that. "I wanted to show you something. Something important. I promise, it won't take long."

"Right now?" Stirk nodded emphatically, noting every micro-expression on the man's face. "Okay. What is it?"

"You'll see, you'll see. It's a surprise," Stirk said. "I assure you, you won't be disappointed."

The jogger was frowning, clearly sensing that something wasn't right. But how rarely people listen to their instincts. Especially with such a trusted face. Who would doubt their own father? Actually, Stirk could name a few. But on this occasion, the family ties were bonding. Cornelius breathed in, enjoying the scent of perspiration. The sign of a good healthy heart. Delicious.

Nobody noticed as the cannibal led his victim deeper into the alley. Men like Cornelius were beneath the notice of the rich denizens of Gotham. They were too good for him. They'd hold galas for the poor, but they wouldn't acknowledge them. And that worked out perfectly for a man of Cornelius's unique tastes. He smiled, exposing a mouth full of rotting teeth and grimy gums. Idly, he fantasized of unzipping the jogger's jacket, placing his hand over the man's chest, feeling the heart pulsing inside his ribcage. He shuddered in ecstasy. Not long now.

He could already taste the heart tissue, could already smell the sweet fragrance of para-mortem fear. With sweaty palms, he led the stranger deeper into the alley. The warren of passages in Old Town were a childhood haunt, known to him like the back of his hand. He traversed them with ease, heedless of prying neighbours. It didn't matter if anyone saw him. Nobody would find him in time. And once it was over, there would be no denying who was responsible.

"Cornelius Stirk."

The voice reverberated in the narrow passageway, and Stirk felt his legs tremble. His tongue traced the haphazard line of his teeth, poking at the gummy spaces left the last time he'd been interrupted by the Bat. He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. A cold sweat gathered on his furrowed brow, and his palms grew clammy. In the back of his mind, he wondered briefly if the presence of the mythic Batman was reassuring to his victim, or merely adding to the seasoning.

"What's going on? Who is that? Who's Stirk?"

"Nothing, son, everything is fine."

Stirk pulled the jogger closer, his hands positioned on his broad shoulders. He had to be prepared to break his neck in an instant, and the Batman had to know it. But what a waste it would be. His mouth had gone dry, but his still craved the taste of a still-beating heart. And he was so close. So hungry. He should have carved him up the first chance he had – he had the knife on hand – but he did so enjoy playing with his food. After all, the fear, the adrenaline, made the heart so much tastier.

"Let him go, Stirk." The disembodied voice rumbled like thunder.

Warily, Stirk shifted his gaze back and forth, hoping to catch some sign of the shifting shadows; the point of an ear, the stirring of a cape, perhaps the shimmer of the tools on his belt. All was darkness. The Caped Crusader had been studying him. He knew it was harder to affect an aura at a distance, one that would gain his trust. Harder still to appear as two familiar faces to two separate people.

"Dad?"

"Please, give me a moment," Stirk said, his voice strained.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and his bargaining chip was getting harder to keep hold of by the moment. His suspicions had to be growing. Every word from his mouth was another chance to slip up, and every prolonged silence just the same. The weight of the knife tugged at the inside of his jacket. Maybe he should just kill the man, teach the Bat for interrupting his meals. But he'd be back in Arkham before the night was out.

No, there had to be a better way.

"That man is not your father. He's an imposter."

"Don't listen!"

"You've known something was off from the moment you met him. Trust yourself."

The vigilante remained concealed by the night, his voice echoing endlessly in the alley. Suddenly, the walls felt very close, the exits seemed miles away. The red sky above seemed to be bleeding into the city. His time was running out, and so were his options.

"Why is he out here? Why hasn't he used your name?"

The jogger had stepped away now, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on Stirk's face. He was beginning to see through the illusion. Now that he was out of reach, snapping his neck was impossible. He cursed the Dark Knight's distractions. He hadn't even noticed the jogger move. Now, the only recourse was to hold his own long enough to devise a way out.

Stirk lurched forward, teeth bared, hands making claws as his dishevelled robes billowed out behind him. What a fright he must have appeared, how fast the jogger's heart must have been beating. His stomach growled as he shrieked with malicious intent. The Batman's pellet dropped between them, immediately filling the cramped space with light grey smoke. Stirk coughed as his eyes watered, and the silhouette of the jogger stumbled away in the haze.

Exactly as Stirk had anticipated. Under the cover of mist, Stirk fished the knife from within his robes, and took aim at the fast-fading silhouette. Any minute now, the Bat would swoop down. He had to be fast, but he had to be accurate. Fortunately, where his vision was failing, his hearing was not.

"Help me, please," the jogger whimpered as he stumbled.

The knife whistled through the air, sinking into the vulnerable flesh with a dull thud. Stirk's hunger grew at the thought, but this was no time to be thinking of his stomach. He had to escape. Even as the jogger crumpled to the floor with a breathy cry, the shadow of the Bat fell over the alley, blotting out the sliver of red sky above.

Stirk barely had time to squawk in terror before the vigilante crashed, two-footed, into his chest, sending him soaring into the trash. For a few moments, Stirk struggled to breathe, rolled up in the foetal position in the oils and dirt of restaurant garbage. When he finally managed to haul in a breath, it came with sickly scent of fish and mould, rotting meat and decaying salads. His hand squished in a blackened tomato as he tried to push himself upright, and there was stain sprawling across his pants leg. What it was didn't bear thinking about.

By now, the smoke had dissipated, and Batman had noticed the jogger's distress. Now, was Stirk's only chance at escape, while the Bat was distracted, concerned for the safety of others. Stirk would scuttle away, into the sewers perhaps, and lay low for a few days. There was still time before Christmas. He could always find another heart for his festive feast.

If only he could manage to stand.

His lungs burned with every breath, his ribs aching, most likely cracked. Using the wall, he slowly scrambled to his feet, slipping once or twice in the slime and grease. He grunted with frustration. Between the Dark Knight and the refuse, he'd twisted an ankle. As if his situation wasn't bleak enough.

Still hunched, holding his ribs, he forced his legs to work, one step then another. Faster and faster, limping, almost skipping. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the Batman still squatting by the jogger's side. His plan was actually going to work.

Stirk allowed himself a smile, his tongue running over his remaining teeth with pride. No more gaps today! The end of the alley was in sight. A few more yards and he'd be home-free. Just a few more lumbering steps…

Tires screeched ahead, but Stirk didn't have time to think about what it meant. A second later, the mouth of the alley filled with darkness, and he careened into the black matte chassis of the Batmobile, his nose crunching painfully against the car door. He slid to the floor and lay there in a heap, panting for breath, as black bat-like dots danced across his vision and blood poured down his face.


End file.
